


In The Meanwhile

by redpeppertea087



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 17:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4028506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpeppertea087/pseuds/redpeppertea087





	In The Meanwhile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my room mate and best friend](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+room+mate+and+best+friend).



The woman didn't die the way she was left - suspended by the neck and wrists a few feet from the office's carpet floors. However, it was the most gruesome image Emanuel Cleaver had ever been witness to. This day, a boring Tuesday, had been quite an event and it wasn't yet ten o'clock. As she leaned up against a wall next to the main door, she couldn't help but curse Ruth (her employer).

She should've felt grateful that Ruth had even hired _her_ ; a fresh-out-of-school psych grad with less than orthodox methods. Of course, Ruth was off with her husband for their anniversary in Turkey. Of course, she wouldn't be back for another 8 days. And certainly, New Scotland Yard called the practice for crime-scene counseling. Emanuel just had to be the only psychiatrist available and conscious at 6:30 that morning.

Emanuel wasn't even aware the Ruth occasionally helped the Yard - until 6:30. She'd obviously worked with these people before, judging from the amount of whispered "who's that’s from the officers. Maybe that was the reason Emanuel couldn't beat back the creeping feeling that she was terribly out of place.

Or maybe it was the erratic and scrutinizing glances from the towering, dark-haired man circling the remains currently.

            "Are you Dr. Cleaver?" She blinked, not used to the title. She found the lead investigator at her side. She'd seen him conversing with the man shooting her odd stares, who she guessed was a consultant.

            "Emanuel, please," she answered, shaking his out stretched hand.

            "Detective Inspector Lestrade," he gave her a reassuring smile, then pressed his back against the wall like her. "First ... Emanuel; how many languages can you speak? The question probably strikes you as odd - ," Emanuel cut him off with a small shake of the head. The question had an easy answer: 3 languages fluently, 2 only at beginner rate.

            "Would one of those happen to be German?" Lestrade continued, his tone clearly hopeful.

            "I take it that my patient speaks very broken English?" Emanuel mused. The DI nodded, then led her out of the office through a back door she hadn't noticed. Emanuel swore she felt the unnamed man give a last glare as she walked past the blazing yellow police tape. The psychiatrist did a once over on her when she stepped into the next room, another office.

Hair and makeup still neat, shirt tucked in, no runs in her stockings, portfolio still hyper-organized. Nothing remotely out of the ordinary.

Shaking the moment off, Emanuel continued following Lestrade. She prayed she acted like a professional, someone with their head together. Since Ruth hired her, Emanuel had been asked by nearly every crazy in London how old she was. Twenty-seven, nearly twenty-eight she would reply without missing a beat. For an odd reason, it offended her horribly; and for a sick reason, she hoped an officer ask her. Or better yet, slip up and ask "aren't you young to be a practicing psychiatrist?". Maybe it was the lack of sleep and good-strong tea, but Emanuel was agitated and itching to jump down someone's throat for calling her a kid.

            "Dr. Cleaver," Lestrade's voice gave Emanuel a turn; she had nearly run into him, lost in thought. Feeling a blush invade her cheeks, Emanuel tried her best to appear calm.

Collected? In her crazier dreams.

Professional? Never a chance.

Lestrade seemed to swallow a laugh. "This is Dr. John Watson. He volunteered to attempt communication. John, Dr. Emanuel Cleaver,"

Emanuel glanced at the doctor; probably a head (at most) taller than her, tired features, but still casual - dressed in jeans and a jumper. Dr. Watson didn't appear as stuffy or scholarly in the least, not like the title implied. John gave the younger woman a friendly smile, extending a hand.

            "My German's been a bit rusty since high-school," he joked, offering Emanuel the seat at a table that had been set up. "The poor woman probably thinks I'm beyond daft,"

            "I appreciate your trying, Dr. Watson," Emanuel sat down and pulled a steno pad and pencil from her bag, dully noting that Lestrade had vanished. She made a few notes about the woman sitting timidly across from her: black hair in a prim bun, maid's uniform (identical to the one on the dead woman), smooth features, older than the dead woman, prominent dark brown eyes. She was probably Slavic.

            "We're both doctors her, so let's skip the formalities," He pulled up another chair to the table. "Do you prefer Emanuel?"

            "Yes, but my family doesn't," She answered quickly. "So, John then?" He nodded, then gestured to the maid.

            "This is Brigitte Kreisler, the woman who discovered the remains this morning," Emanuel stared at John questioningly, expectantly.

            "Did you get anything else from her?" She asked after a few seconds. The blonde shook his head, an embarrassed smile pulling at his lips. Emanuel exhaled, running a hand through her light brown hair; she'd chopped nearly all of it off upon her return to the U.K. two months ago. She was still getting used to her neck being perpetually colder.

            "You weren't kidding when you said you were rusty," Emanuel giggled, failing to stifle it. "Is there anything specific you'd like me to ask her?" Nodding, John passed her a piece of lined paper torn from a notebook. Giving her fellow doctor an encouraging smile, Emanuel dove in.

What time did you arrive this morning?

Five-fifteen, like I do every day.

Other than the obvious, was there anything unusual?

The south window was open. Nobody ever opens it.

Were there fingerprints?

None that I could see.

What was the woman's name and age?

Pasha Elnh, 36. She was his secretary.

Who's secretary?

Mr. Arthur's - the CFO here.

And where is Mr. Arthur?

He's in America for business this week, he left on Monday.

Did you know Miss Elnh well?

Not very well. I've been assigned this wing for only four months. Very quiet woman, kept to herself but always polite. Even with my not knowing the language well.

At what time did you discover the body?

At around five forty... usually I reach this wing at six. Not today. Pasha isn't ever in that early...seeing that car was odd...

What car does Miss Elnh drive?

I don't think she does... the car in her reserved spot was a black Audi. She normally takes a taxi.

Do you know of any family?

I know of a sister. She's in South Africa now. I'm not sure what her name was... She only told me a few weeks ago!

That's quite alright, Brigitte. Thank you very much.

 

Leaning back from the table, Emanuel found herself chewing her lip. It was a nasty habit she'd developed in grade school. The questions were standards - not intended to come with profound revelations, but basic enough to entice a sense of comfort in the questionee.

But they still bothered her.

She glanced sideways a John, who was pouring over her quick notes and translations. Something about him was... endearing. He'd be someone she would take along for tea or book runs; just very comfortable, and logical. Her thoughtful silence was interrupted by an imposing figure materializing next to John. Emanuel's hazel eyes flickered up to see the dark haired man (from before) studying her intently.

Thought it was partly unnerving, Emanuel couldn't help from inspecting him as well. Longer curly black hair, serious expression, very English defined features, and dressed... dramatically; slacks, dress shoes, scarf and overcoat. The intense scrutiny ended when John slid the notepad back to Emanuel.

            "These answers are pretty useless ... with the exception of the car and Miss Elnh's occupation," Emanuel murmured, staring at the paper and twirling her ankle in a continuous circle.

            "Agreed," John muttered, leaning back in his chair. He looked up at the other man, now tinkering with his mobile. "Are you going to introduce yourself or is that my job now as well?" There was a quick pause as Emanuel proffered her hand, introducing herself for the fourth time that morning. The man took it silently, but quickly retracted and tapped out something on the mobile's keyboard.

            "Sherlock Holmes," He responded in a bored tone. Tucking away the mobile, he finally made eye contact. "How long have you been back in London?"

            "Two months," Emanuel smiled, trying to contact her confusion.

            "And the job," Holmes continued. "I supposed that's fairly recent as well? Like the haircut?" She watched Watson in peripheral, trying to get a read off him. By his relaxed, if not slightly annoyed expression, Emanuel took it as this was normal behavior.

            "Yes, I've been at my firm for almost five weeks, and the cut is new," she said hesitantly. Forcing herself to sink back into the chair, one question crossed her mind and flew from her lips before it could be quelled. "How did you get that from a hand shake?"

            "Not from a handshake, Dr. Cleaver," Holmes corrected, his voice taking a superior air as a smirk tugged at his mouth.

            "Excuse me?" Emanuel blinked. If not the handshake, then what? She did play with her hair more than normal, but that's because she was adjusting to the length - easy and understandable assumption. The return to London and the job didn't add up.

John shot an warning glare at Sherlock. "You're going to have to explain your thought process to her," Rolling his eyes, the taller man continued.

           "First, your clothes. They're newer than your jacket. You're constantly moving your foot in circles. Habit? Not close, seeing as you change directions. New shoes is more likely; probably never worn heels before, judging by your posture earlier - leaning against the wall and clearly uncomfortable. New clothes generally means a new job, and judging by your age, I'd wager this is your first," Sherlock checked his phone, then pressed on in the uniform monotone.

            "Second, your voice is unstable - the tone especially. You've been out of the country for a while given the way you're pronouncing certain vowels. However, it isn't pronounced enough to be more than a five or six year stay, but it hasn't begun to wear off yet. Six years, for school due to your profession; thus how long have you been back?" He paused, like there was nothing else to say. Emanuel sat there, quietly stunned and struggling to process his words.

John's expression hadn't even verged on surprise. In fact, Watson looked disappointed.

            "You've not finished yet, Sherlock. It's lost on no one. So, would you care to shorten the dramatic pause?" the doctor watched his colleague, un-amused. Rolling his eyes the detective (Emanuel assumed he was) begrudgingly finished.

            "You play with your hair to an irritating extent; it's new. You're an ex-dancer; your walk told me that, dragging the foot behind just slightly and never placing your heel down first. And your voice says you're also a sing - maybe opera, but nothing extremely intensive or serious," Another silence fell. Then Emanuel blurted something else out.

            "So, you're hyper-perceptive?" Holmes glared at her and didn't answer, clearly offended by her comment. He turned to John instead.

            "Ask the maid what the woman was wearing yesterday," the doctor glanced sideways at the psychiatrist, who nodded in understand. Emanuel obliged, getting an answer quickly and detailed:

A black skirt, dark blue blouse, sheer black tights, and black heels. She came in the previous morning with a trench coat and red umbrella.

Emanuel relayed this back to the two men. The detective smirked before dashing out of the room.

            "Is he always like that?" Emanuel asked harshly after dismissing Brigitte. John stood, lifting a computer case.

            "Yea, sorry about that," he apologized, sounding something akin to embarrassed. "You get used to it after a while, if you try. Most people just tell him piss off," The psychiatrist gave the doctor a forgiving smile. She was still dizzy with aggravation at the detective.

            "Been friends a long time, I take it?"

            "Does being flat-mates a few months count?" Emanuel nodded, gathering her portfolio and starting towards the door. As they crossed back into Elnh’s office, she saw Lestrade listening with strained patience as Holmes explained something, expression nearly as exasperated as the DI's. Emanuel took it as the didn't regularly see eye to eye.

            "So you've been back two months," the doctor started, brightly. "Where've you been living?" The question didn't come off as odd - all her friends had been asking her, so the answer came easily. When her family began badgering her, then she turned her mobile off.

            "Bunking with a friend near Trafalgar Square, but not for much longer," Emanuel revived her chipper tone. "My aunt's a landlady and offered me a flat in her building. And it's closer to my practice," John nodded in understand; he glanced over his shoulder at the scene for a moment. A flash of anxiety crossed his face - gone in a blink. When they reached the door, Emanuel stopped and turned to the blonde. She pulled a card from her portfolio.

            "Would you tell me how this turns out?" She asked, slipping him the card. "And of the Yard ever needs a shrink, send them to me okay?" This probably came off as needy or desperate, but John took the card regardless.

            "Of course, but I don't think I'll need to after your translation demonstration today," he said earnestly. Emanuel felt her cheeks grow hot; she never liked being complimented. "I'd go as far as to say Lestrade was more that impressed, Dr. Cleaver,"

            "Thank you, Dr. Watson," she returned. "You're too kind, really," The doctor brushed off her words and held the door open.

* * *

 

Back at the flat, John studied Emanuel's card intently. He had already sent her an email with the basics of the morning's outcome. His flatmate had cleverly deduced that Pasha Elhn had been killed by her sister, visiting from South Africa, by having her throat and wrists slit. The sister exchanged clothing with the dead woman and strung her up to look like a very elaborate suicide. The NYS people were currently scouring London for one Sonia Elhn, dressed in the clothing Brigitte Kreisler had described.

And sometime's Sherlock's preformances of perception were uncanny. This one, thought John, wasn't as astounding as usual. Actually, the whole day was "less-than" for Sherlock. Needless to say, John Watson would never doubt preliminary interview questions again - or try to say them in German.

But the reason John was staring fixedly at the small paper rectangle wasn't the email or the phone numbers. It was her practice's address, A beginning psychiatrist like Cleaver would have the merit yet to open a new practice, but he never thought she would work in the same offices as his therapist. Ruth had probably referred her because she was on holiday, but why would she take on a fourth member?

Maybe Ruth had finally given Isla the boot.

            "Why are you still staring the girl's card?" Sherlock questioned in a monotone.

            "She works for Ruth," John shrugged, turning the paper in his fingers. _And she has a name_ , He thought. _A very unusual name...especially for a girl._

            "I don't think it wise to focus o it, John," the other man advised. "Could become unhealthy,"

Watson rolled his eyes. So preached the man who had been staring at microscope slides for the last 3 hours. John turned around to face Sherlock, perched on a stool at the kitchen table. Sherlock adjust the scope and changed slides before acknowledging John with a raised eyebrow. "Yes?"

            "You got something else from her, didn't you?" A smirk began to form. Sherlock exhaled sharply.

            "Of course I did,"

            "Care to get me up to speed then?"

            "Not in the slightest,"

*                     *                    *

            "Wyn, I think you can live without me constantly within four feet of you," Emanuel repeated, frustrated, for possibly the eighth time that week. "Remember 'keep calm and carry on'? Do that and work on the Renassaince manuscript," Her best friend from high-school, Eowyn, had been mourning the loss of Emanuel as a flatmate for some time now. Honestly, she wasn't going to be that far away - across town at most! (Aunt Margaret had yet to give her the address).

            "But - but, Ema - ," her tawny-haired friend gave her a kitten-eyed whimper that was clearly for show.

            "Wyn, I promise I'll come and watch American telly with you," Emanuel gave Eowyn a wry smile. The young woman crossed her arms, surveying the small accumulation of her friend's belongings in the living room.

            "And you'll bring Indian when you come?" She was looking for reassurance; something noted by Emanuel.

            "But only Chinese for movies, except for Disney movies which is specifically Thai," Emanuel nodded, adding a quick: "I catch on, don't I?"

            "What if the tea canister goes missing?"

            "Yes, you can bother me, but I garuntee it will always end up with the gingersnaps,"

            "And if there aren't any gingersnaps, then what?" Eowyn teased, plopping down on the couch cross-legged. Emanuel arranged several books in a box. After her friend exhaled loudly, she swiveled around to stare at her and said (dead-seriously):

            "Then we're screwed beyond rational thought and England itself will fall," The girls squinted at eachother, daring one another to blink of look away. "Wyn,"

            "Yes?"

            "Be a dear and turn the damn telly on so we can catch up on Castle and I can finish packing,"

*                        *                         *

To: emacleaverpsych@

From: margarethudson@

Dear Ema,

I'm sorry it's taken me so long to pass this along to you! It's been hectic for nearly no reason at all. Anyway, the address is 221b Baker Street. I'm so glas you accepted the flat offer, Ema. It really has been too long, dear - since Katy's wedding hasn't it?

See you Saturday,

Aunt Margaret

[sent 15/9]

 

To: margarethudson@

From: emacleaverpsych@

Aunt Mags,

Thank you; can't wait for Saturday! Even with the looming thoughts of lugging boxes to the 3rd floor! It's been busy here too: Eowyn is pouting and NYS required my psychological genius two days ago. I met two rather .... interesting people. I'll tell you on Saturday!

Love,

Ema Lira

 

To: emacleaverpsych@

From: margarethudson@

NYS? That's wonderful, Ema! My other tenants are consultants of a DI there. Lestrade, I think the name is.

 

To: margarethudson@

From: emacleaverpsych@

Lestrade was the one who called the practice. I was filling in for Ruth. Maybe I'll recognize them when I move in?

\- Ema

*                      *                    *

To: emacleaverpsych@

From: jhwatson@

Emanuel,

D.I. Lestrade asked me to pass on that he's planning on sending Elhn's sister to you. He thinks you're more than capable of preforming the required psych evaluation. He'd like to know when you can pencil her in; her name is Sonia Elhn, seeing as she's just recently divorced. Good luck moving!

\- Dr. John Watson

 

To: jhwatson@

From: emacleaverpsych@

John,

Tell Lestrade to email me himself. Just pass along the address on the card. I would hate to have to use you as the go between!

Thank you,

Emanuel Cleaver

*                          *                         *

Emanuel stood outside the black door of 221b. The night before had poured rain, in traditional London fashion, and had aroused a bitter damp chill. Through the lining of her coat pockets, she clutched at her dress' skirt, praying it wouldn't fly up in the wind. Of course, she had worn a skirt - that day of all days.

            "Ema!" The door flung open and she found herself engulfed in a hug from her Aunt Margaret. Squeezing back just as tightly, Emanuel tried to remember the last time she'd seen the woman; at her older sister's wedding, alomst 7 years ago. They had talked on the phone, but Emanuel didn't get much free time with her chosen degree and what little she did have (especially while in school) was monopolized by her mum.

Emanuel remembered something about her uncle being thrown into a US prison, but decided against asking. Aunt Maragret ushered Emanuel, and her boxes, into the main hall before inspecting every bit of her niece.

            "You look in great spirits, dear," the older woman smiled kindly. Emanuel mimicked the gesture.

            "You as well, Aunt Mags," she said cheerfully. "How's your hip doing? Much better, I hope?"

Margaret nodded. "There's been a definite improvement. I've gotten much better help recently,"

A bit more small talk was made before the niece was led into her aunt's kitchen for tea. They spent the next hour and 1/2 catching up: Emanuel's schooling, practice and family; Margaret's latest gossip, concerning estranged relatives and the two practically batty old ladies down a few; how 221b was acquired.

Turns out Emanuel's very odd, generally unnerving uncle had finally snapped and was (eventually) executed. Margaret thinks it was the divorce that did it, but said no more - only that one of the tenants ensured the verdict.

            "I should probably begin to move my things," Emanuel stood, grabbing her coat off the chair.

            "Let me get one of those boys to help you," Margaret called as she made for the apartment door. She obviously wanted to get to the main hall before Emanuel - so she'd have to accept the help.

            "If you insist, Aunt Mags," Emanuel called into the corridor. The young woman took her time; she placed their cups and saucers in the sink, put away the biscuit tin, then started to follow. Emanuel could hear her aunt's very pleased voice as she walked.

            "Ema will so appreciate the help, John,"

            _There she goes,_ Emanuel mused. _Acting like a mother hen..._

Tenant #1: John; still waiting on Tenant #2, but probably wouldn't take long. However, Emanuel was stunned to see the good Dr. Watson carrying her suitcase to the second floor landing, Aunt Margaret on his heels. Eyes wide, Emanuel shrank back -  John didn't see her, but that wasn't the reason. John had said that Holmes was his flat-mate. Emanuel's mind instantly flashed to the detective:

_You play with your hair to an irritating extent... your tone is unstable ... probably never worn heels before..._

The psychiatrist was not looking forward to seeing him again, let alone live within a 13 stair proximity of him. The blank for Tenant #2 was filled in then.

Emanuel stood frozen against the wall until her aunt and the doctor reappeared. Suddenly, Emanuel felt an odd panic-like sensation in her chest. A tightening of chest cavity muscles that left her meek. Emanuel Lira Cleaver was not mousy.

Out of the sudden need to hide her face, she began to busy herself with a box of books. She had almost slipped past Aunt Margaret and John as she made for the stairs. The weight of a hand on her shoulder didn't need to tell Emanuel she was caught.

            "Ema, don't be rude," Aunt Margaret whispered, directing her back around.

            "Nice to meet - ," John stopped abruptly. There was an awkward drop in the room. "Emanuel?"

            "Yes, good to see you again, John!" Emanuel said a little too enthusiastically. She categorically refused to set the box down. It was a momentary security blanket, insurance that she wouldn't look like a klutz.

            "Mrs. Hudson is your aunt?" John said, looking dazed. Emanuel nodded. There was another pause. "Well, then, there's no need to invite you to tea anymore,"

            "You were going to invite me to tea?" Emanuel stared awestruck. Then, her features softened from the initial dread-ish symptoms. The doctor opened his mouth, but Aunt Margaret stepped in.

            "You didn't tell me you knew John, Ema," She was putting the "I'm-going-to-give-you-a-talking-to-later" tone to good use. Her niece sighed heavily.

            "You never told me your tenants' names,"

            "You didn't mention the names of the people you know from the Yard,"

            "I said I would tell you about it on Saturday. It's Saturday and you never asked, Aunt Mags" Emanuel's mouth pursed as her eyes narrowed. Margaret adopted the same expression; she never like being called "Mags" in public; it was her childhood nickname. In front of one of the tenants was definitley 'in public'.

John, wisely, stayed out of it. He'd seen the same countenances grace his mother's and sister's faces. The warning look.

            "I'm going to bring this upstairs," Emanuel stated firmly, a subtle hiss in the words. John began to step forward, re-offering help, but decided against it. When she was about 1/2 way up the stairs, Emanuel called over her shoulder: "John, you really don't have to help me if you'd rather be doing better things,"

 

* * *

 

Emanuel would be lying if she said she hadn't expected John to leave the last two boxes outside her door. Emanuel could practically feel her aunt's fuming presence - 3 floors up, no less. Feeling it better to diffuse the problem without much fuss, Emanuel scrawled a small note of apology and crept downstairs to slip it under the old lady's door.

_Dear Aunt Margaret,_

_So sorry about this afternoon. I was just overwhelmed, Who would've guessed I'd be 1/2 living with someone I me breifly on Tuesday? A little shocked is all! I'd really like to not hace you angry with me - it's frightening not being on your good side._

_Love, Ema_

_p.s. Thank you for the biscuits._

As she crossed the landing of the second floor, a door behind Emanuel creaked open. Turning sharply, the young psychiatrist found herself (once again) face to face with Sherlcok Holmes. She found herself withed clenched teeth.

            "You knew I was related to her, didn't you?" Emanuel said stiffly.

            "Of course I did," he scoffed at her. The tone added a smug "idiot" to it. The detective was leaning up against the door frame, a haughty glimmer in his eyes. Jumping onto the flat of the railing, Emanuel slid down against the wall until she was in a slouch. She quirked her eyebrows - challanging him.

            "Mrs. Hudson told me your mother's name a few weeks ago. She was going on about her niece agreeing to move in, and how she should call her sister to tell her the news. I casually asked for her sister's name," He shrugged. "Opal Cleaver; Emanuel Cleaver. You're too young to be another sister and there aren't any grandchildren. Niece is the obvious conclusion,"

Emanuel considered this, her jaw slackening only a bit. Taking a breath, she replied: "I'm disappointed, Holmes. I was expecting another show of brilliance... which was silly," Sherlock made some noncommital noise - halfway between a sigh and a sneer.

They locked gazes, holding them for a long time. Neither moved nor wavered from the concrete eye contact. Emanuel couldn't help but notice the man's eyes for the first time: vivd, striking, attention absorbing. From the room he had emerged from came a soft hiss. A thought crossed the young woman's mind.

            "Since the last observations were lackluster, would you care to give me the details of Tuesday's murder?" Emanuel asked calmly, adjusting her posture. Staightening, the detective was only too happy to comply.

            "She never left the office, but the killer tried to compensate by parking their car - a rental - in her place, and opening the hall window. The woman wasn't a maid, thus the clothes were switched. The killer wore the same size; easiest assurance of that is a relative, a sibling. The maid mentioned them talking of a sister. Taking in size and gender, they were very close in age or twins. South Africa - they had a strained relationship. She told the maid about her - she was visiting. Ergo, look for a woman wearing the same clothing,"

Emanuel nodded, starting to understand despite the obvious missing piece. "What was the motive? If it was her sister, it couldn't have been senseless," Sherlock gave her an odd look, like someone categorizing a file. Then he jumped back into his long winded answer.

            "She was wearing an engagement ring; very new and very expensive. I read her calander. It was filled with meetings and fittings scheduled for the next few months. The sister was divorced and they probably hadn't seen eachother in over two years. I'd wager the fiance was originally involved with the sister, then traded for the victim. I'd pose that question during Wednesday's session,"

            "It's a psych evaluation, not an interogation," Emanuel said bluntly. She figured Lestrade had told him. In fact, Lestrade had agreed to letting her conduct the evaluation in her flat. She felt the urge to tell the detective to ask the sister himself if he was so compelled, but that would've made things worse. Emanuel got sick of the next silence before it had time to settle.

            "So, jealousy then..." Sherlock didn't say anything. He did, however, check back at something threough the doorway behind him. Emanuel followed his gaze through the crack in the doorway. "What're you working on?"

            "Experiment," he answered simply. Turning back around, another silence fell. This time it seemed more scientific - Emanuel was rattling through possibilites why he was so intuned to fine details. Sherlock was scribbling down mental notes in a file for 221b's newest addition.  Later, Emanuel slid from the banister (realising only then how tall the detective really was, without heels for assistance).

            "Is there anything I should be aware of now that I'm living here?"

            "I'm sure Mrs. Hudson told you everything,"

            "If she did, I wouldn't be asking. Or would I?"

            "I play the violin when I think... other than that, ask John," Then he slipped back into the other flat, continuing his experiment. Judging by the soft clinks of glassware, Emanuel guessed it was chemistry-related. She resisted the urge to follow, thinking that an experiment run by that man would be an experiment she could wait on.

Sherlock would probably just glare at her.

So, Emanuel returned to her flat to organize her belongings. The flat, though technically the attic, was the nicest she'd ever stayed in. Bonus: it was all hers. The main door opened to a living room with walls lined in bookshelves and furnished with a few armchairs and a sofa, clearly worn in and comfortable. Around a corner was the kitchen and dining table. Earlier that day, it seemed that Aunt Mags had left a sleeve of Lotus tea biscuits for her. Honestly, that's what prompted the apology letter - sad as it sounds (the woman sent them to her every christmas with a box of good tea and Walker's).

The bedroom was right off the kitchen and had an attached bathroom. Emanuel had already spread out the quilt her grandmum had made for her mother. Emanuel's mum hadn't warmed up to the gift, so it stayed stashed away in the hall closet until Emanuel had found it at age ten. Her mum hadn't recognised the green-and-pink-floral blanket, so "baby Ema" claimed it.

A few things she really loved about the flat: all the windows (only had to turn the lights on when it was pitch black out), the yellow paint in the kitchen, and that her book collection did not fill the shelves. The rabbit ears on the telly was a nice bit too.

Time did get away from her. At 2:15 am, she placed the last book - _The Sound & The Fury_ by Faulkner - in it's spot. As she placed a small stool in front of her library, Emanuel realised that Sherlock wasn't kidding when he mentioned he played the violing. Through the floor boards drifted a light melody. it was soft and thoughtful, but neither hesitant nor unsure. The way he said the fact earlier made her believe others found it irritating. Emanuel, on the other hand, could get very used to it.


End file.
